The Man Beside Mine
by Skulduggery Moran
Summary: A one-shot about Sebastian Moran. Includes Mormor and Johnlock


The graves lied side by side; the graves of two great men, with no  
great victor. Everyday I went down to his grave, a bunch of flowers in  
hand. I would sit, cry, lay and kneel by it for hours on end. And he  
would come to. He would come and lay by the headstone next to the one  
that I seemed to own. We never would talk, not even with words of  
encouragement or gratitude when one of us held the gun in our hands,  
when one of us was ready to pull the trigger and end it here. We would  
look to the other one and nod, knowing of what they would want. We  
would put the gun down and nod, and by this alone we saved each others  
lives more times than I can remember.

No one came to visit my grave, but thousands came to visit his, I  
would hide behind the large stone, and wait for them to pass, knowing  
all too well that they would not understand the pain of the man that  
they attempted to comfort. When they left I would retake my place at  
the base of the stone, and wait on; hoping that the speech in my head  
and the ache in my chest would be enough to bring him back. We heard  
each other talking, and felt each others pain, but one never said a  
word to the other.

By the end of the first year, on the very day of their anniversary  
death, I began to feel angry. I started to scream at the stone, I  
would shout, and scream, and my anger became my person. I couldn't  
accept the fact that life continued, that the world kept turning  
without him. He had never had a funeral, no one but I would ever have  
been there to witness it. So instead I sat, and hid as they lowered  
his body, and inscribed the grey, breaking, headstone that year ago. I  
regretted that he didn't have a funeral, so I conducted my own, a year  
(and a day) too late; and the man beside me attended. So we stood in  
the dusking light, as my voice cracked and stumbled over words.

In the second year of his absence, I started to run out of money, and  
all the jobs that I were suited for would force me to travel away from  
London, and away from the memory of him. So I found a job at a library  
that allowed me to work late. I spent the day by his grave, and the  
night at the library. I found myself crying more this year. I had a  
lot of silence, and silence allowed me to think; thinking only lead to  
him. His voice, his stance, his posture, his face, his clothing, his  
schemes. I realised how much of my life was centered on him.

The man next to me didn't appear much anymore. When he did, he usually  
had someone with him, but it didn't stop him from glancing in my  
direction. He seemed to scan over me, as if checking for any concealed  
weapons, probably hoping that the gun wouldn't show. It never appeared  
that year, but the tears and sticky cheeks never left.

By the third year, I only ever saw the man next to me once. In his  
absence, I believed that he had forgotten, and vowed that I would  
never do the same. I started to bring the gun again; occasionally a  
stack of books and a rope came as well. When placed in the correct  
order in a pile, the spines of the books read his name. It was  
becoming more of an option than ever, but I didn't have the guts, yet.

Later the same year I saw the man next to me again, and another man  
stood by his side. He was tall, defined and supposedly dead. I knew  
exactly who he was, and he was not possible. When they came I stared  
at him, and he stared back for a moment, before a sudden realization  
seemed to cloud his eyes.

I remember looking at him that day. The look of someone in need. My  
eyes were wide, hopeful, and they gleamed with pain and frustration. I  
had sat a little straighter, and leaned in. I was awaiting the news I  
needed, the news I had waited three years for. He just shook his  
head. I can't remember them leaving, but I remember the burning tears  
that stroked my face.

The next day his grave was torn down. But mine stood, alone.

I could never take his news as fact. I waited by that grave for the  
rest of my life. I never picked up the gun again, because there was  
the chance of his survival.

I didn't see him again, the man beside me. I didn't need to. No one  
came to visit my grave.

So I sat alone awaiting his return.

And it finally came.


End file.
